Standing upright, Stillborn cinched his gear belt. Two swords, a nail hammer and a knife hung there. "I best get going. Follow when you can."

Raif swung his feet onto the floor.

Nodding at Yelma as he passed her, Stillborn said, "Looks like she's got a case of exploding boils." "Still," Raif said. "The sword?" "Foot o' the bed, my old friend. Foot o' the bed."

The Forsworn sword had been wrapped in a length of cheesecloth and laid at the end of the mattress. Kneeling forward, Raif tore off the fabric and uncovered the blade. The flat had been polished so finely it reflected his face like a mirror. Drawing his thumb along the edge he tested for sharpness. It opened the skin but drew no blood. Good. The point was like a diamond, hard and brilliant, and the only thing he saw that was not perfect was a slight warping in the pattern of the steel where bent metal had been fired and hammered back to true.

Raif removed Stillborn's borrowed blade from his sealskin scabbard and replaced it with the Forsworn sword. The rock crystal surmounted on the pommel flashed as he moved across the cave. As he clasped the newly repaired Orrl cloak around his throat he fell some shame about what had happened earlier with Mallia Angola. He did not understand himself.

Grabbing the pole light on hit way out, Raif Sevrance headed toward the greatest concentration of noise.

The night was clear and lit by stars. Snow glowed blue. The moon had not yet risen, but Raif calculated it was due. He moved quickly, leaping from Stillborn's ledge to the one above and then up the rope ladder to one of the longer ledges that ran east. Others were moving too. Maimed Men, their faces blank, their knuckles while where they gripped scythes, stone-bladed axes, sharpened and fire-hardened wooden staves, cruciform halberds, forked spears, swords, knives. The frenzied clangor of the alarm worked on their bodies like a drug, making arms twitch and neck tendons spring out like wires. The clash of metal chopped Raif's thoughts into slices. He could no longer think of whole things, was incapable of formulating of retaining a plan. instead he thought in pulses. I must go up this ladder. I must avoid the hoist lifts. Too many people: Get out of my way.

He drew his sword. Two women kneeling on the ledge, heating cauldrons against the rock, cried out his name. Naked, their bodies obscenely shadowed and missing flesh, they hissed as he stared at them. Slowly they began beating out a new rhythm on the rock. " Twelv Kill. Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill."

He turned his back on them. Maimed Men made way for him as he landed on the lowest of the three great rimrocks that spanned the city.

Hiking on top of a boulder, he tried to see the way ahead. Armed men were moving across the snow. A watch fire had been lit by the mouth of the pool cave, but the flames were sluggish and needed pumping. A blind man beating a sheet of scrap metal by the fuel pile had caught the rhythm of the hags above and now fell in time with them. Twelve Kill Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill.

Raif shouted to someone, anyone, no one, "Feed the fire." People looked at him and did not move. Perhaps their thoughts were like his own, and while they heard his voice, the sense of its meaning would come later.

Raif jumped down. Below him the Rift lay like an absence in time and space, a crack of perfect darkness in a night drawn blue by snow and stars. He felt hearts moving deep within the earth where rock softened and ceased to be; unmade flesh pushing with inexorable force against the barrier that divided worlds. Tongue wetting with saliva, Raif made his way up to the next ledge. He heard the fighting before he saw it; heard heavy thuds and sudden inhalations, squealing swords and the compressed murmur of frightened men. His mind picked the sounds out of the clangor like jewels in the sand. Raif shouldered his way through the crowd. His name had traveled before him and the alarm beating on the middle level of rimrock hammered it out for all to hear. Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill.

A darkness above the heads of the men drew his eye. Something lashed out. A child screamed. Raif laid his hands on people and pushed them out of his way. Linden Moodie, Stillborn, Yustaffa the Dancer, Traggis Mole's big guards, and other unwhole fighting men formed a loose circle around the shadow beast. It was eleven feet tall and moved like a serpent, snapping and weaving, launching attacks with its head. Unarmed except for talons as thick and black as turkey vultures; it was not the kind of being capable of wielding a sword.

Raif thought of the Shatan Maer, imagined this was one rung down in the level of creation. It moved like liquid shot at force. A crack of its tail sent Linden Moodie to his knees. Plunging its head around, it snapped off both his legs. Blood fountained onto the snow. The crowd stepped back. One of the Mole's cronies stuck the monster's hide with his spear. And could not get it out. Thrown off balance by his own thwarted force, he stumbled backward, right hand cupping air. The shadow being leapt forward and thrashed him with its claws, tearing up skin and ribs and genitals.

The guard's spear was lodged in the back of the creature's neck where it swung back and forth like a tuning fork. The dark matter of unmade blood smoked from the hole. A series of high squeals shot from the being's jaw as it spun a half-circle and lashed out at the nearest Maimed Man. A sickening crunch was followed by the sound of vertebrae popping like knuckles as the creature bit off a man's head.

Raif glanced across the clearing at Stillborn who was slowly moving forward, sweeping his sword in a defensive half-circle with every step. Their gazes met and agreement passed between them. Raif attempted to meet Yustaffa's gaze, but the Dancer gave a little snort and looked away. His swordbreaker had been abandoned and in its place he wielded a scimitar with a thickly rounded blade.

Stillborn made his move, yanking the nail hammer from his belt and flinging it at the back of the shadow beast's head. The creature whipped around. Prepared, Stillborn was already moving away. Raif hurled himself at the being's darkly scaled back, leaping up to sink the Forsworn sword into its heart. Shadowflesh opened with a hiss. There was give, the point slid inward.

And then the blade failed.

The break in the pattern. Raif felt the collapse and tried to muscle through it, but the sword could no longer be driven forward. Just bent. Releasing his grip on the hilt, he kicked a foot into the creature's hide and sprang back. Almost he made it, but as he flung his body out and around, he felt the air-push of imminent impact followed by a massive, battering ram of a blow. It propelled him forward into the crowd. The creature's shadow fell upon him and he thought his life was done, but something happened—what, he would not find out until later—and the creature spun around and moved away.

Raif saw people's feet through a watery haze. He smelled the snow. It stunk like gas. Dimly he was aware of something happening behind him, of shifting weight and shadows.

The pain in his left shoulder had no end.

"Give me your sword."

The words did not seem to come from him, yet he must have spoken them, for a big brute of a Maimed Man hauled him to his feet and handed him a weapon. The weight of the blade was shocking. It was forged like an iron bar. The man had a malformed spine; extra bone bulged from the of his neck. "God's speed to you," he said with feeling.

Raif had no reply for him. He had turned toward the clearing and saw a killing field of snapped and disemboweled bodies and blood. The snow was stained black. A dozen spears stuck from the creatures shadowed hide and the holes they created vented smoke. Raifs gaze darted to the few men left at the other side of the clearing, searching for Stillborn. When he spied the swish of a tan leather kilt, he allowed himself to breathe … and move forward.